


Before the Morning After

by thedevilchicken



Category: Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969)
Genre: Clothed Sex, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-13
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-22 08:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14304969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Alcohol has never really led either of them to any good places, but Butch would like to think it's not gone too far wrong this time.





	Before the Morning After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



Alcohol has never really led either of them to any good places, but Butch would like to think it's not gone too far wrong this time. 

The problem is: neither of them knows what they're doing and they're just about drunk enough, on some really cheap damn whiskey that tastes like the bartender they bought it from stirred it up in an old tin tub out back, that they're past the point of pretending they know it all. The fact is, for once, they don't. The fact is, for once, they won't pretend they do.

Butch is at a complete loss; Sundance, for his part, looks like he's lost right there with him. He's got a look on his face like he's been caught with his pants down and Butch figures that's not far from reality, because Sundance's pants sure are down right now. They're pushed down round his calves, caught on his boots with his belt hanging loose against the mattress, and his shirt's all rucked up underneath his arms where he put it. He's bare from mid-chest down to knee. His face is flushed and so's his cock, and Butch is asking himself if he can make himself touch him. It's not that he doesn't want to, he just doesn't know if he should.

If Butch told the truth, and the truth is that's not what he's best known for, he knows it didn't start tonight. It started a long time ago but tonight they're finally admitting it, even if it's coming with a more than usual lack of words. It started the first time Sundance grinned and Butch grinned back, just because he liked the way it felt to share the moment just between the two of them and not with the whole gang. It started the first time they shared a bed and fought over the blanket and when they settled down to sleep, Butch thought maybe that wasn't so bad, even if he'd protested pretty loudly beforehand. 

It started the first time they wrapped themselves up around each other to try to keep from freezing, hiding out one night in some tumbledown old barn under a ragged old tarp because home was still a full day's ride away. Butch's face was tucked into the crook of Sundance's neck and his hands were pushed up underneath his jacket, pressed flat between his shoulder blades where he could feel him breathe. He remembers Sundance's cold fingers at the small of his back, over the top of his shirt, rubbing circles that might've made him blush if he'd had the warmth to spare. They didn't sleep. They just shivered together, holding on tight.

It started sometime last month when Butch got his arm nicked by a bullet and Sundance sat him down on a rickety chair in some shitty rented room that at least wasn't in a whorehouse, stripped off his torn, bloody shirt and told him, _hold still_. He held still while Sundance cleaned his arm with a cloth soaked through in cheap booze, though it stung like a son of a bitch and made him hiss with each dab. And when he took a swig from the bottle, it spilled over his chin, down his neck, under his collar; Sundance laughed at him and ducked his head and licked it off his skin. After that, maybe it didn't seem so funny anymore. 

It started sometime last week when Sundance whined the whole damn way as they rode between towns about how his whiskers were getting too damn long and when they got where they were going, it was way past midnight so all amenities - except the brothel and the bar - were closed. Butch pushed him down onto a chair in the room they'd just then paid for and he sharpened the razor in the lamplight while Sundance watched it glint. He lathered his bristly face, rubbing the soap in with his fingertips, then he pulled over a second chair and sat himself down right in front of him, perching on the edge of it. But he couldn't get close enough for a really good angle till he pulled the chair in between Sundance's wide-spread legs and slung one thigh over the top of his. 

Sundance didn't laugh; he just watched him as he shaved him, slowly. Sundance didn't talk; the only sound was the rasp of the razor layered over the faint sound of the rowdy drinkers downstairs, playing cards. Butch had his fingers on Sundance's face, turning his head this way and that, feeling the pulse in his neck, and he hadn't meant it to be like that, he really hadn't - he'd just meant to get him to shut the fuck up. He guessed he'd managed that, at least, and when they went to bed and he blew out the lamp, well...maybe he hadn't meant it, but it was for damn sure still there anyway.

Tonight, they've drunk too much. They stumbled up the stairs and into the room, their shoulders butting up against each other's, and when Butch turned the key in the lock to close the door behind them, Sundance tripped and fell right into him, right up against his back. He laughed as Butch's head swam, his forehead down against the door, but that died out quickly. Sundance rested his head against Butch's shoulder. He rested his hands at Butch's hips, his thumbs tucked down into his gun belt. Butch felt him inching closer, one hand shifting so he could lean against the door. Butch felt him press against his back from chest to thigh. 

He didn't push him away. He turned instead, leaned back against the door as Sundance stepped in closer, then they were face to face, too close to really focus. Butch turned his head, looking for the whisky bottle, and suddenly Sundance pressed his mouth to the side of Butch's neck, his fingers fisting in the front of his shirt. He sucked, scraped with his teeth, and then Butch did push him back except not far, just far enough to get Sundance's mouth against his mouth and not his goddamn prickly throat. He tangled his fingers in Sundance's stupid blond hair, wondering vaguely what he'd done with his hat and when he'd done it, and he kissed him, hot and hard and tasting just like cheap hooch. It felt like it'd been a long time coming, and like there was a lot left to come. 

Sundance gave him a lopsided grin as he pulled back and he pulled off his coat and he stepped back, unbuckling his gun belt from around his waist to set his pistols aside on the table. Butch did the same. And there was a moment when he thought maybe that was it, back to normal, but then Sundance shrugged off his vest and stretched out on the bed, still mostly clothed, his boots still on. Butch watched as he unbuckled his belt. He watched him lift his hips and shove down his pants, over his thighs, past his knees, till they caught at his boot tops. He pulled up his shirt and tucked it under his arms. He was blushing bright red and watching Butch's face the whole damn time. 

So, he joined him on the bed. That's where he is right now. 

Neither of them knows what they're doing. Butch asked him - _have you done this before?_ \- and Sundance just snorted like the question was stupid, or like he was, or both, so he took that as a no. So he grabs the bottle from the table by the bed and he leans over, leans in; he mostly stoppers the neck of it with the pad of his thumb and he drizzles whisky down Sundance's chest like he needs an excuse right now. Maybe right now he does, and it works because he licks it off of him, sucks it off of him, his mouth and his tongue on Sundance's warm skin. He tastes of throat-burning liquor mixed up with dust from the ride but Butch doesn't give a damn, not even when he comes down to Sundance's thick cock. He presses his mouth to it, by the base, wraps his fingers around it, strokes it, licks at the tip, and Sundance groans out loud. He figures he could get used to that, if neither of them bolts before they're done.

Butch is all nerves and that's not like him. He doesn't have a fucking clue what he's doing but he sucks at the head of Sundance's cock and Sundance's hips shift, Sundance's fingers twist into the sheets, and it's not that bad. He likes the way Sundance's cock feels in his hand. He likes the sharp taste and how goddamn responsive he is to every single thing he does. He takes more in. He leans over and sucks, bobs his head, drags the flat of his tongue against him, but then Sundance pushes at his shoulders, pushing him away and then down on his back. 

Sundance palms at Butch's cock over his pants. He traces the outline of it and Butch scowls half-heartedly, digging his bootheels into the mattress so he can push up against his hand. But then Sundance moves; he straddles Butch's thighs as best he can in his current state of undress and he makes light work of unbuckling his belt and Butch spreads his arms out wide, reaching back to grip the headboard. He pulls at his waistband and Butch lifts his hips and once his cock's free, Sundance unbuttons his goddamn shirt and pushes it open, too. He spreads his hands over Butch's chest. The look on his face says he has no clue what comes next, so Butch figures he can take a stab at it. 

He pushes Sundance down onto his hands and knees. There's some kind of slippy stuff he picked up for treating burns he figures will do the trick so he grabs that from his pack, hoping like hell he doesn't trip on his goddamn pants around his goddamn ankles while Sundance watches him, and then he settles back in behind him. His cock rests at the small of Sundance's back. Sundance spreads his knees out wide. Butch's heart fucking races, and he rubs the stuff between Sundance's cheeks with the pad of his thumb. He sits back on his heels and he rubs the rim of Sundance's hole. He presses against it, feels how tight it is. He lines up his cock against it. 

"Yeah?" he says, and Sundance says, "Yeah." So he pushes against him, and it's difficult, it's a whole lot more difficult than he'd thought it would be, he keeps slipping out of position and winding up pressed up against the back of Sundance's balls, so he rubs himself there just for a minute while he assesses the situation. Then he tries again, pushes forward, uses his fingers as a guide, and Sundance grumbles something about taking his sweet goddamn time till the tip of his cock pushes in. It's just the tip for a moment, and he stops like that, looking down, looking at himself as he pulls back and does it again and Sundance lets him, no complaints, just pushing in, pulling out, pushing in, pulling out, till he thinks he's gotten the hang of it, even if he's driving himself mad. 

Then he pushes in, one long, not totally slow thrust of his hips that makes him groan through his gritted teeth as he grips Sundance's hips. The sound Sundance makes is fucking obscene and he pushes back against him, shoves back against him like he can somehow take him deeper that way. Somehow, he does, and it makes Butch's breath hitch, and then Sundance moves again, Sundance pushes against him till he's fucking himself on the length of Butch's cock and all Butch can do is kneel there, his hands at Sundance's hips, and watch. 

He's so fucking hot and tight around him and the arch in his back and the way he moves, Butch never realised how much he wanted this. He runs his hands over Sundance's back, over his thighs, dips one down to his cock, and Sundance curses colorfully under his breath so Butch takes that as a good sign. He strokes him, his hand still faintly slick, rubbing at the head, squeezing, and Sundance's hips buck, pushing against Butch's hand, pushing back against his cock. The room's practically spinning and Butch practically claws at Butch's hip with his free hand, eyes glued to the bright scratches that he leaves behind, while Sundance groans and huffs and pulls real tight around the length of him as he shudders, groans and finishes. Butch can't help it; thirty seconds later, he's done, too. He's sweaty and spent and still half clothed.

There's a really long moment where they just stay that way, right there in the shitty lamplight, hands and knees with Butch's cock still pushed up inside Sundance. There's a really long moment where they catch their breath as Butch's thumbs rub at the dimples at the small of Sundance's back. Then he pulls back, pulls out, almost falls right off of the bed except he catches himself and then takes a swig from the bottle. He'd pull his clothes right except then Sundance stands up, too, and he figures what the hell - he passes the bottle to Sundance and he steps in to unbutton his shirt for him. Sundance lets him undress him, shirt first, then he drops to his knees and pulls off his boots, his pants, his underwear. He's surprisingly compliant.

Butch kneels there still half-dressed and sitting on his heels, looking up as Sundance drinks, buck naked. Sundance raises his brows. He sits himself down on the edge of the bed and leans forward against his knees. Jesus, Butch is tired, and he's sweaty, and he's drunk. So's Sundance, that much is obvious. 

"Come to bed before you pass out," Sundance says, and he puts the bottle down and he stretches out. He pats the mattress there beside him. Butch shucks his clothes and does as he's told, for once. Somehow, being naked with Sundance isn't even half as bad as he thought it'd be, at least not once they've turned out the light.

Sundance sprawls on half on top of him, his arm over his chest, one leg hooked over his. Butch figures he'll cope. He doesn't even mind Sundance's stubble rubbing his shoulder, or his mustache tickling his skin. The drink helps.

Alcohol has never really led either of them to any good places, Butch thinks, as he closes his eyes in the dark. But his fingers are toying with Sundance's hair. 

Maybe this time it's different. He guesses he'll find out in the morning.


End file.
